


the fracture

by unhappy_matt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Ambiguous Feelings, Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fragmented Narration, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Obsession, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Multiple, Self-Destructive Behavior, Self-Hatred, Sibling Incest, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vomit, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28363230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhappy_matt/pseuds/unhappy_matt
Summary: This thing, this growling, gnawing thing, it grows monstrous beneath Dean’s flesh.One of them is going to get hurt.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	the fracture

**Author's Note:**

> It's official. 2020 Made Me Do It: I started watching Supernatural for the very first time.  
> Predictably, I decided to inaugurate my dip into this fandom with a tribute to my first ship so far.  
> Please note that I'm still watching season 1 at the time of writing this fic; my interpretation of the characters is still strongly shaped by what I've seen up until now, and it's bound to evolve as I continue to watch more. 
> 
> This fic has been a lot of fun to write and I'm very excited to share it. <3

**I.**

_I can deal with it_ , he’d figured.

 _Just don’t think about it._ Easy. _And everything will be fine._ Everything will be _normal_ , which sounds disturbingly too much like what Sam would want, anyway.

Fine. Normal.

Dean had been wrong.

-

It’s dangerous, the way Dean’s feelings sneak up on him, creeping up to twist around his heart, sinking their thorns into his guts like some kind of venomous vine. They work quietly but quickly, a deathly illness. They threaten this fragile balance that he and his brother have started to rekindle between them, this unstable truce as he and Sam walk side by side down the path that their family history has laid out for them.

He doesn’t know what he’d expected. That he and Sam would be able to work together, live together, and that the rotten secrets Dean has buried deep inside would just stay there. Dead. Buried.

_(Buried, yes. But not torched.)_

After years of minimal contact, years of silence and distance, Dean had almost gotten used to it. To the aching gaping hole of daily life without Sam. Like missing a limb, sensing the pulsing of phantom pain, and learning to live with it regardless.

And yet.

It takes so little, as soon as Sam is back by his side. Everything starts flooding Dean all at once, and he knows the strength is enough to leave irreparable devastation in its wake.

-

It starts out the moment Sam gets in the car with him, entrenched deeply in his own grief over the death of his girlfriend, finally willing to join him like Dean had hoped and nearly _begged_ Sam to.

Those _feelings_ —that _warmth_ , the _ache_ —they coil inside Dean’s belly, and he ducks his head and starts the car.

Sam is shell-shocked, trembling with rage and despair. Sam is with him.

(It’s _selfish_ to be grateful that Sam is with him.)

Or maybe it’s one day, at dawn, as they’re leaving a rest stop in the middle of nowhere.

Sammy’s asleep in the passenger seat, reclining, with his head resting against the window. His long legs taking up too much space. Golden sunlight hits the curls on his temples and he breathes quietly, wrapped up in what Dean hopes is a nightmare-free sleep.

Dean lifts a hand, lets it hover in the empty space between their shoulders. Sam hums and shifts slightly, frowning.

Dean drops his hand, fingers clenching on the wheel until his knuckles whiten. He drives, slowly, in the cool, crisp morning. The light’s too blinding beyond the windows. He doesn’t want to wake Sammy up yet.

Maybe it’s the first time Sam finally smiles at him, open, unguarded, and Dean’s chest swells. The sound of Sam’s laughter feels intimate and gutting, the way a stab wound is.

Or maybe it’s that night at the asylum, when Sam has a gun to Dean’s face and he lets his anger loose, no matter how twisted and molded by a supernatural force. Sam’s resentment, his fury, they are real to some extent, Dean is certain.

In the aftermath, while they’re back on the road, he tortures himself with the thought that Sam really could have hated him enough to kill him.

Sam’s hate feels deserved, and for that reason, deliriously thrilling and exhilarating. Is he a masochist, too?

But Sam hurt him, Sam _wanted_ to, and it made Dean’s blood sing with a disconcerting mixture of despair and euphoria that keeps boiling under his skin for days, after.

Sam would hate him more, if he knew the feelings Dean has been harboring, this putrid mess inside of him.

Dean deserves Sam’s hate, and real bullets from a loaded weapon, because he’s in love with his baby brother, and he will never tell Sam the truth.

Dean has always loved Sam, but that’s— _normal_. It’s what a good older brother does. He looks after his family; he takes care of his own.

Dean has always looked after Sammy.

He doesn’t know when it is that his feelings shifted, when they morphed into _this_. Caring about Sam, worrying about him, protecting him, and then wanting him, it all has been one and the same for a very long time.

Dean had hated Sam for leaving, but when he had, it had almost felt like relief. Sam would never have to know, then, he’d never find out what was so deeply _wrong_.

Dean has tried, he’s tried so hard. Flirting his way from one State to the next, chasing the blond hair and the pretty legs and the bright smiles of women he’ll meet once and never again. It’s easy that way, turning his charm on with people he can leave behind and forget with the next curve of the road.

It’s less easy, when the cause of his ache sits beside him, muttering about crappy food and reading road maps and kicking Dean in the shins to let him know he’d been snoring.

He needs to regain control of this. He needs to be the brother Sam needs him to be; the son their father would expect him to be, prepared to lead the way on their mission.

Sam needs him.

(Dean needs Sam.)

There is nothing he won’t do, nothing he won’t try to be, in order to be worthy of keeping Sam in his life.

**II.**

It gets worse.

They spend almost every hour together, day after day, miles and miles stretching behind and in front of the two of them. They sleep in the car. They share the cramped, stifling space of small motel rooms, elbows and knees brushing when they slide into narrow twin beds, when they stand together inside small bathrooms, shaving, brushing their teeth.

Sam is tall, so tall that it feels like he’s looming even when he doesn’t mean to. Dean feels cornered, invaded.

Sam’s large shoulders. The beautiful curve of his spine. There’s strength in his arms, in his hands—and the softness of kindness in face, in his eyes, although it’s often clouded by sadness and worry and guilt. Dean pushes him away, the more looking at Sam makes him desperate to hold him close.

He carefully looks away when Sam undresses, except that his eyes then linger on the discarded clothes strewn on top of cheap bedspreads. He mutters excuses when he’s met with Sam’s concerned frown, _“Dude, are you okay? You’re spacing out.”_

It feels almost exhibitionistic when Dean is the one to strip. It’s tempting fate, something eventually will give him away. He tries to get dressed in the bathroom, when he can. But he sleeps shirtless, in his underwear, sometimes ( _and maybe Sam will look_ )—because what would be weird about doing that?

 _If you’ve got nothing to hide_.

Sam’s closeness feels so real, so inescapable, and so completely untouchable. The smell of his skin fills up the car, it clings to Dean’s clothes, to his skin. It’s his imagination, he knows he must be making things up. But Sam is everywhere.

_(“Dean, roll up the window, it’s freezing!”_

_“I don’t like your new shampoo, it stinks.”_

_An annoyed groan, head shaking in resigned puzzlement. “What are you_ talking _about…”)_

Sam does push-ups and sits-up on the floor when he gets restless.

Sometimes, Dean pretends to be still asleep, early in the morning, and he listens while Sam’s under the shower, through the barrier of a thin wall.

_(A warm palm pressed to Dean’s nape. A whispered “Dinner,” while Dean flicks through pages of dad’s journal and fights with the blooming headache splitting his skull in two. He wants to turn around, then, and grab Sam’s wrist until he can make him flinch, and pull him in. Drag his mouth and his teeth over the sharp angles of Sam’s jaw, and taste Sam’s pulse under his tongue.)_

This thing, this growling, gnawing _thing_ , it grows monstrous beneath Dean’s flesh.

One of them is going to get hurt.

-

He steals one of Sam’s t-shirts, the one Sam has been sleeping in for a few days.

He locks himself in the bathroom of the motel room they’re currently staying in while Sam is out, searching for food and information.

Dean buries his nose into the fabric, twists it in his fists until his hands ache. It’s a plain white t-shirt with fraying hems, a tiny rip on one sleeve, a faded blue logo on the front that at some point belonged to some gym Sam must have attended.

Dean bites into the collar. His whole body shakes with the weight of that gesture.

He jerks off viciously, with the shirt pressed to his face. His orgasm rips through him violently, more pain than pleasure, and he likes it. Sam would hate him. Sam would never forgive him for any of this.

Dean almost falls to his knees, sobbing with relief and with terror after days, weeks of holding back, of trying to rein in his frantic thoughts.

After, he can’t look at Sam’s shirt. He can’t look at himself in the mirror. That simple piece of clothing is tainted with what he has done with it.

Dean disposes of it discreetly, throwing it away before Sam can notice. That night, when Sam turns the room upside down and huffs and mutters about how he’d swear he’d left his shirt right there, Dean shrugs. Nope, he hasn’t seen it, no idea what Sam’s talking about.

He feels worse. A small price to pay, still, compared to the truth.

-

Something’s wrong, and Dean won’t tell him what it is. His worry eats away at him, but there’s nothing Sam can do that will make his brother talk.

Dean seems… _off_ , out of it, a lot of the time. There’s something that boils underneath his usual brash façade, and Sam can’t tell what it is. It makes him uneasy. It feels like anger, and God, do they both have their share of anger toward each other. Plenty of stuff they should _talk about_ , at some point; but that’s not how they do things, and the daily horrors they have to face are too much for them to afford the luxury of lingering on each old wound. 

Still, Sam had figured that the events of the last few months could be considered solved between the two of them, at least. They apologize, from time to time, when one of them crosses a line—they don’t hug it out, but they look at each other and nod and smile, and things are okay again. At least as okay as anything can ever be between them, in their family.

But something _is_ wrong.

Dean is weird around him, like he’s angry at him. Sam can sense it, but no answers. If he presses the matter, he can be sure Dean will never admit to anything.

But he isn’t crazy. There is something, and Sam doesn’t know if he wants to get to the bottom of this.

The days drag by. Sam feels disaster closing in, like a tide he can’t stop.

**III.**

They’re at a pub in a hole of a town somewhere, after two days of fruitless research that have been making them feel like they’re running in circles. The case they’re working has them high-strung, running on too much coffee and too little sleep; tension flickers between them like electricity. They’ve barely spoken to each other, in curt, half-muttered one-word sentences. 

They sit down on opposite sides of a wooden table, in a corner. Dean faces the entrance, always on the lookout for relevant activity, and for a way out. The place is crowded, smoky, the heat inside almost too much after the windy cold that fogs up the windows.

“Look, let’s just—Let’s get something to drink. Catch our breath. We can start again in a few hours.”

The tentative offer comes from Sam, and usually he wouldn’t feel like nursing Dean’s bad mood, but right now, he’s equally exhausted. They aren’t getting anywhere. Might as well agree to a break.

There are two women sitting at a table next to them, on Sam’s right, near the opposite wall. One of them with short raven hair and a black miniskirt, the other with wavy blond hair and a pink dress. Sam glances at them, and the dark-haired one plays with her straw and smiles at him. Sam nods and smiles back, quick and uncertain.

He and Dean start out with a beer each. That, in itself, would not be cause for alarm. Sam sips his drink slowly, taking his time, and allows the liquid to cool him down, to ease the blunt pain between his shoulder blades. He stops after two, satisfied with the pleasant warmth settling under his skin.

Dean keeps going. Two beers. Then a glass of whisky. 

He drinks fast. His movements are restless in a way that makes Sam increasingly nervous. Dean glances around, then he rubs the back of his head, then he rips paper towels apart and crushes the little pieces under his fingertips.

Dean downs a second whiskey right after the first. There’s a disturbing determination to the way Dean is drinking, something cold and focused in his expression. It’s deliberate; he’s drinking to get drunk, not to relax. He knocks down each shot and slams the glasses on the scratched-up wooden surface. Whatever this is about, Sam doesn’t like it.

He finds himself reaching for Dean’s arm after Dean flags down the red-haired waitress again.

“Whoa, might wanna pace yourself…”

He doesn’t even touch Dean, not really; but Dean grips Sam’s forearm with enough force to startle him. He digs his fingers into the cotton of Sam’s sleeve, before shoving him away.

“Leave me alone, Sammy.”

Sam pulls his arm away, leaning back into his seat. Annoyance thrums like a buzz in his ears, despite his effort to be patient.

“Okay,” he rolls his eyes. “Never mind.”

The two girls keep looking in Sam’s direction. Sam’s too tired to be all that interested, honestly, but if Dean wants to sulk and drink by himself, that suits Sam fine. Dean’s choice of how to waste the night doesn’t have to be his.

He stands up and heads for the girls’ table.

“Hi,” says the blonde one. “I’m Sara. This is Maeve.”

Sam turns away from where Dean is sitting. 

“I’m Sam.”

-

Sam’s talking to those girls. He makes them laugh; he smiles at them, bright and soft. He buys them drinks. One of the two touches Sam’s shoulder and says something, and Sam laughs with her.

The rage that blooms inside Dean is lucid and unhinged, for a moment. It’s _red_ , overpowering, horrifying.

Dean downs another sip, throwing his head back. It helps him come down from the destruction he wants to unleash, just a little. The edges of his vision start to blur, and it’s what he wanted.

It doesn’t bother him like this, not always. When Sam talks to other people, chats up cute girls. Dean observes him in those moments, he shelves them, his private collection of how Sam smiles, what makes him bite his bottom lip, the compliments that make him blush.

Tonight, Dean’s hands shake. He grips the cold, smooth surface of his glass and wonders idly if it will shatter against his palm. He doesn’t always drink this hard, either.

The heat grows on his skin. Sweat punctures the back of his neck, makes his palms itch. The background noise of the room around him, the clattering of glasses and plates, the chatter and laughter, it all swims in and out of his ears, a garbled mess that starts losing all meaning.

It’s only fair, isn’t it? Sammy deserves to enjoy a nice night out, for once. Sam deserves to have fun. He deserves to be _happy_.

It’s selfish of Dean to want to hold him back. To want to hoard Sam’s brightness for himself.

He _is_ sick, he really is, and if one of them is going to get hurt, he can’t let it be Sam.

He orders another drink.

-

Time melts into nothing. Dean stares at his reflection swaying at the bottom of his glass, underneath amber liquor.

He starts when a hand touches his shoulder, ready to jump to his feet and disarm the potential threat. Or rather, this is what he’d do in his mind; when he staggers, getting up too quickly, the pub twirls around him in disjointed colors and sounds, and he nearly loses his footing.

Strong arms around his upper body, caging his chest and his back, pulling him upright. Letting his guard down, an unforgivable mistake for a hunter, could be the last one of his life. Dean thrashes.

“Okay. That’s enough for tonight.” Sam’s voice in his ear, stern, strained. The warmth of him becomes less foreign, and Dean sags, relaxing into the touch he’s recognized. He would be in danger, he would be, if this weren’t Sam. Sam who could have left him there, but he still came back for him, despite everything.

Sam pulls Dean’s arm around his neck, upholding him with a palm pressed to Dean’s hip. Dean shivers. The smell of Sam’s hair clogs his nose, clouds what remains of his control, taking over his senses. He stumbles forward, sensing himself plunging head-first toward the floor, dragging Sam with him before Sam manages to make the both of them regain their balance. He buries his nose into the side of Sam’s hair, for a moment, it’s getting longer, it tickles him, the delicate skin near Sam’s ears must be so soft.

He hears Sam scoff, cursing under his breath. “Not gonna help even a little, huh?”

Dean’s direction is abruptly adjusted and Sam pushes him toward the exit. “Come on, man, this way. Ugh, you’re heavy. Careful, now, the step… Good, like that.”

\- 

The motel isn’t far, but the walk back is a haze. Sam’s arm around his back and the cutting air against his skin. The world around him spins and spins, the black night and the glittering lights of nearby houses.

Sam shushes him, pulls and pushes him, groaning with the effort, and Dean lets him. His body feels heavy, uncoordinated, sacks of concrete loosely stacked.

The door to their room creaks open, Sam’s warm palm in the middle of Dean’s back.

“Easy… almost there.”

The room is dark, at first. Something hits the back of Dean’s legs, must be the edge of the mattress. Sam guides him down, a light pressure on Dean’s shoulders, until Dean finds himself sitting on one of the beds. Dangerous questions threaten to spill from Dean’s mouth, so he clenches it shut. They share a room but they don’t share their _bed_ , they haven’t done that since they were little.

The contrast is too sharp when Sam manages to turn on one of the lamps, too sudden, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut. There’s an acre, metallic taste on his tongue. He doesn’t remember puking. He must stink like it, taste like it, even. A pang of guilt because Sammy’s the one taking care of him, cleaning after his mess, this time.

Sam’s hands on his calves. Dean’s breath hitches violently, his heart racing. Sam helps him out of his shoes, kneeling on the floor close to Dean’s legs. Dean looks up, blinking, trying to bring Sam’s face into focus. Sam’s eyes are on him, his expression is serious but still gentler, still softer than Dean deserves.

“There, you’re all set.” Sam sighs. “Try to sleep it off, okay?”

His hand across Dean’s collar bone again, it burns. Dean resists, he grips Sam’s elbows.

Dean swallows hard with a throat full of shards of glass. “I…” He clenches Sam’s shoulders, he must be hurting him.

“I love you, Sammy,” he drawls. 

Sam touches Dean’s hand on his arm. “Yeah. Love you too, dude.” A smile twitches at the corner of Sam’s mouth, but more unsure, now. He seems guarded; or maybe too tired.

“No.” Dean shakes his head. “No,” he repeats, feverish. His eyes are burning. “Wait. Sam,” he rasps. He yanks on Sam’s arm, tugs him closer. He sways forward, colliding with the solid wall of Sam’s chest. Sam’s body tenses, the contraction of his muscles traveling to Dean’s skin.

Dean clings to Sam’s nape like a lifeline, splaying trembling fingers against Sam’s cheek.

“I—love you, Sam.”

A sharp, shocked breath escapes Sam’s throat when Dean crushes his lips into Sam’s, open-mouthed, hungry, moaning with desperate relief, digging his nails into soft hair.

Sam clasps Dean’s wrists, dislodging Dean’s fingertips from the spot where they’re clutching his shirt.

He pushes Dean back; not violently, but a fast, instinctive reaction, freeing himself of Dean’s grip.

Sam stands up slowly. He withdraws, one step back. Suddenly the space between their bodies is very empty and very cold. Dean’s hands fall back on the bed, holding onto nothing.

Sam's expression is difficult to decipher in the flickering shapes of shadows and orange light, but he looks—distraught, gasping like he’s been hit.

Dean can’t face that look, the way Sam is staring at him. So distant, as if he’s a creature Sam no longer recognizes.

“You’re drunk, Dean.” Sam’s voice is a weak sound. Punched out.

The shade swallows Sam’s face, the look in his eyes. Dean can’t breathe. Can’t talk. He wants to fold on himself, he wants to wail like a wounded beast. He’s hollowed out. No more words in him to spill. Only _Sam_ , but he can’t say it.

“Go to bed, Dean.” Still that distant, careful voice. It hurts more than if Sam had punched him, knuckles pummeling into his face until Dean’s blood splattered the wall.

Sam’s hand on his shoulder is shaking, or maybe it’s Dean’s body, he can no longer tell. Sam guides him into the bed, too delicately, rolls him onto his left side. He drapes the covers over Dean’s body like a shroud.

After, it’s dark again.

-

Sometimes later, it’s still pitch black when Sam hears Dean’s steps stumbling toward the bathroom, hitting furniture and making the floorboards creak under his unsteady weight.

He listens to his brother heave and hurl into the toilet.

Sam should help him. He should go see if Dean’s alright.

He doesn’t.

**IV.**

The morning after, Sam is doing an inventory of their arsenal in the trunk, when he’s alerted to the sound of shoes on gravel. He looks up to find Dean shielding his face with his arm, standing near the entrance of the motel.

Sam tries to speak and he feels strangled, a length of rope tightening around his throat.

“Dean—”

Too much crowds Sam’s mind all at once. _We need to talk_ almost blurts out of his lips, as if it’s ever been successful in the history of all the conversations they should have had and never did.

Dean raises his head. If his eyes are glassy and red-rimmed, if he’s looking paler than usual, Sam could chalk it up to the morning light playing on Dean’s face.

“Yeah?”

Dean shifts the strap of his duffle bag from one shoulder to the other as he walks up to him. His steps are heavier, more uncertain, less decisive than usual.

Sam bites his tongue. “Nothing.” He takes the duffle bag that Dean hands him and sets it on the backseat, taking more time with this simple gesture than it would be necessary, feeling overly careful. Fumbling as if it’s important, somehow, for the bag to be placed exactly right. Sam’s stalling and he knows it.

Without talking, Dean opens the door on the passenger side and slips inside.

Sam takes the driver seat. The rumble of his heartbeat is too loud, the early morning too quiet.

“You. Um.” Sam’s fingers twitch on the wheel.

Dean sits rigidly, pressed to the backrest. His bent arms are taut near his legs.

Sam exhales. “You drank a hell of a lot last night.”

Dean isn’t looking at him. “Free country. Right?” Dean’s nails dig into the fabric of his jeans, sinking into his own thighs in a way that must hurt.

He grimaces. “Must’ve blacked out. Can’t remember shit.”

Sam’s eyes flick up from Dean’s hands to his face.

“Nothing?”

He meets the green of Dean’s eyes, finally, hardened and sharp like the way Dean is clenching his jaw.

“Nothing,” Dean breathes out, throaty, shaking with the slightest trace of hesitation that Sam only picks up because he knows the sound of his brother’s voice better than he knows his own. That simple word sounds like a warning.

Dean pulls out his sunglasses and he puts them on, allowing that screen between the two of them to shut Sam out completely.

Another sharp breath.

“Come on, Sam. Let’s go.”

Sam tears his eyes away. Cold, acid nausea burrows inside of him, settling steady and tight inside his stomach.

Slowly, silently, he takes the Impala out of the deserted parking space.

They both stare at the road, and they don’t say a word.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Dean. A whole lot of OUCH for him. 
> 
> This fic is a huge cliché storm, but it's MY cliché storm. :D <3 
> 
> My heartfelt thanks to all the lovely mutuals I've been talking to thanks to this common fandom. You people have been amazingly kind and encouraging and our talks inspired and motivated me. 
> 
> -
> 
> In case anyone finds it interesting, here's a small playlist of songs that I was listening to during the writing of this fic:
> 
> "It will come back" - Hozier  
> "505" - Arctic Monkeys  
> "Do I wanna know?" - Arctic Monkeys  
> "Damn your eyes" - cover by Beth Hart  
> "Thinking 'Bout You" - Dua Lipa  
> "It's all so incredibly loud" - Glass Animals


End file.
